


holding pattern

by Apotheosis



Category: Guild Wars, Guild Wars 2
Genre: Fluff, Friendship, Gen, trahearne/commander if you squint
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-03
Updated: 2016-05-03
Packaged: 2018-06-06 02:51:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,549
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6734920
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Apotheosis/pseuds/Apotheosis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Perhaps after… all of this, when we have time to breathe.” There it was again, that after that sparked a flutter of hope within Trahearne’s chest. The possibility of a life out from under the weight of destiny.</p>
            </blockquote>





	holding pattern

It was not often that the Marshal of the Pact indulged himself in idle thought. His title brought many things, but it had never once afforded him even the notion of a free moment. Even in the solitude his office provided him within the steel walls of Caer Aval, Trahearne never partook in the luxury of even a meal or a rest without some sort of paperwork accompaniment, supply lines and airship directives laid out for him to pore over as he ate and before he drifted off to sleep. Only on the rarest occasions would he ever let himself be caught up in his own mind, unstirred by thoughts of his duties.

One such moment came shortly after he’d snatched victory from the jaws of defeat within the Artesian waters. So deep within Orr, that first attempt had been heartbreaking - to hear the land’s thready heartbeat swell for a moment before the vice grip of Zhaitan’s blight had snuffed it out once more. It had been the commander, then, that had pulled him from his fugue within those depths, reminding him of the enormous strides he’d made. And now - just past the culmination of his Hunt - an inkling of wonder had trickled into his thoughts, the possibility of an _after_. He’d never had the resolve to even dream of an _after_ to his Wyld Hunt before the Pact, yet on the heels of their victory within the source of Orr it was suddenly within his grasp.

He’d let himself imagine it as he sat at his desk. An Orr free of corruption, ruins blooming with vibrant and exotic plant life to rival even the Caledon. Pact strongholds becoming villages and rest stops for pilgrims and wayfarers alike, stops dotting the landscape as the faithful made their journeys to the city of the human gods. Though it would be a long time coming yet, Trahearne had every belief that it would come to fruition - his Wyld Hunt’s true completion.

A knock on the door fractured the illusion, drawing Trahearne from his reverie; he realized that he had been staring intently at one of his office walls for what had undoubtedly been far too long, the assault plans for Arah all but forgotten on the table before him. He turned in his seat, looking toward the sealed entrance. “Please, come in.”

The iron door creaked as it cracked open, watery Orrian sunlight filtering in from behind the figure at the doorway. It took Trahearne only a moment to recognize the commander of the Pact, a gentle giant of a sylvari who dwarfed even he, and a smile lit his face at once. “Commander! You’ve returned.”

“Just moments ago. I was held up at the Keep - something about a whole herd of pack dolyaks spooking near the asura gate. I’m glad I didn’t have to be the one to clean that mess up.” An amused grin turned the corners of his lips upward as he stepped in, the door falling closed none too gently behind him. The metallic, weighty clang echoed through the small room, both sylvari wincing in tandem with the sound. “Sorry. I always forget that.”

Trahearne waved the apology off, his pleasure at having the commander back within the fort still more than evident in his expression. “I trust there were no issues other than the dolyaks?”

“None. General Soulkeeper will be reassigning more units to send at your request; she’s ready to throw everything we have at this dragon. We’re pulling record recruitment numbers at the Centerhouse, too. Seems everyone’s lining up for a shot at Zhaitan.”

The Vigil-clad sylvari pulled a satchel from his back and rummaged through it as he spoke, taking care not to catch it on the iconic teeth of his order’s shoulderplates. Trahearne noted offhandedly as he watched that the armor must have been polished, the contrast of charcoal against white striking even in the yellowed light of the oil lamps that dotted the room. He halted that train of thought in its tracks immediately as the commander righted himself, brushing ferned hair over one shoulder with his free hand. His prize was a slightly collapsed box of some sort, the thick paper pressed inwards unevenly and one corner bent at an odd angle. The commander’s empathy grew bashful, and Trahearne’s gaze flickered upward from the container to the other sylvari’s face.

“And this is?”

"A-... a gift?” The commander’s plated shoulders lifted briefly, his smile placating. “I don’t know. It seems silly now, of course - but I know you have to deal with whatever rations you can get out here, and I know- I know that hardtack and stew get monotonous. And you deserve... “ He trailed off. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

Belatedly, Trahearne realized that his expression had grown quite dazed, forest green brows arched in surprise. He couldn’t hide the embarrassed flush that spread over his cheeks and the bridge of his nose, but he could at least look away from the commander’s confused expression, instead staring pointedly once more at one of the lamps lining the interior.

“It’s nothing. I... don’t receive gifts often. That is all.” The shift in emotion from the other sylvari was enough to draw his gaze back up to him. The commander looked almost sad now, concern lacing his conscious enough that its touch reached him through their shared empathy.

“Why wouldn’t you? You’re the _Marshal_. You deserve it more than any.”

Trahearne’s smile returned at that. “Your concern is appreciated, my friend, but it is undeserved. We could not have gotten as far as we have without the contributions of every soldier of your Order - every scholar, every agent. It was luck that brought me to the epicenter.”

“Luck, and the virtue of being the greatest scholar of Orr anyone here has ever seen. Don’t sell yourself short, Trahearne.”

“You flatter me.” He said, and the chuckle that accompanied it was rare indeed from the studious necromancer. Trahearne reached for the crumpled box as the commander offered it out to him, his curiosity finally outweighing his modesty.

“Like I said - it’s not much, and they're probably cold by now.” That bashful smile returned to the commander’s face as Trahearne lifted the cardstock lid to find two pastries, glazed with icing and cinnamon. They were surely sweet, that much he could guess, but not immediately familiar to him.

“What are these called?” He asked before he could help himself, and the commander’s surprise at his question became evident at once.

“Don’t tell me you’ve never had a cinnamon pinwheel before, Marshal?” The title seemed strange now, coming from him, even in his teasing tone - a dig at Trahearne’s ever present formality, no doubt. Trahearne looked up from the box to find the commander now struggling not to laugh.

“I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure.” He elected to ignore the commander’s amused prodding, and reached to drag a finger experimentally through the icing. It was tacky, but not entirely dried, and came off in a pale clump on his index finger. A hesitant taste revealed it little more than a sugary paste, thick and on the verge of too-sweet for his own preference.

The commander laughed gently at the motion. “It’s not poisoned, you know. But I’m sorry if it’s not to your liking. I hardly ever see you eat.”

Trahearne looked up once more, shaking his head firmly. “Nonsense. They're a wonderful gift, and a welcome break from rations.” He lidded the box once more, setting it beside the maps currently laid out on the table. He was glad the commander had intervened when he had; the work of a military leader was never done, and he’d spent far too long on idle fancies already. “Thank you, my friend. For thinking of me.”

“You’re welcome. Next time I’ll have to bring something more substantial than baked goods.” The commander grinned, re-shouldering his pack. “Perhaps after… all of this, when we have time to breathe.” There it was again, that _after_ that sparked a flutter of hope within Trahearne’s chest. The possibility of a life out from under the weight of destiny. “I should probably check on the Vigil barracks.” The commander cut in once more, recapturing Trahearne’s attention. “Make sure they’re not causing each other grievous injuries before the final fight. A pent-up soldier is a dangerous one.”

Trahearne nodded. Ever vigilant, as always. “A wise idea. I’ve spent too long away from these, besides.” He gestured to the table beside him, the siren’s call of his duties too much to ignore for very long. Guilt had begun to creep in at the edges of his thoughts, though a small part of him wanted nothing more than to continue to shirk his duties in the name of simply enjoying an afternoon with his companion. _After_ , he thought again, and it was the closest thing he’d ever said to a prayer. “Pale Mother guide you.”

“And you too, Trahearne.” The broad sylvari stepped forward, settling a gloved hand on Trahearne’s shoulder for only a moment. The metal on cloth was still a strange sensation even through the leaves of his coat, but the gentle squeeze that accompanied it steadied his nerves. “Take care of yourself, alright?”

Trahearne smiled. “Of course.”

**Author's Note:**

> I haven't posted fic to the internet in... years, so I'm more than a bit rusty. Please forgive me ;o;


End file.
